Snow
by ArbitraryFate
Summary: Alexander still dreams, sometimes;


Many years later, Alexander Hamilton grudgingly admits to Eliza that, in retrospect, perhaps, maybe, he had been slightly careless.

It was the summer of 1793 – when the yellow fever broke in Philadelphia.

The city, usually vibrating with activity, had gone to a standstill: the wide streets empty but for the corpse-wagon that passed by every morning to pick up the unfortunate souls who had succumbed during the night. Every morning, Philadelphia's citizens were woken up by the driver screaming, "Corpses t'burn! Corpses t'burn! Bring em' out!" Those ravaged by the yellow fever could only be burnt; there was no other option.

The vast majority of politicians had fled to their respective homes until the cold came, which always broke the contagion.

Washington, Adams, and Jefferson had already left.

Hamilton hadn't.

 _When he was still young and his mother healthy, Alexander would have the most vivid nightmares imaginable. He would creep in silently to his mother's room, and she would sit him on her lap._ "Il y a très longtemps," _she would say, her soft voice instantly soothing,_ "Dans un pays étranger…" _She would tell him stories from afar, stories of kingdoms so dry they made their castles out of sand, of regions so cold it was always snowing (Alexander longed to see snow one day), of enormous mountains that spewed fire and gray ash. They could afford no books, no sketches, but Alex still imagined other worlds. He dreamt of flying over the sea like one of the sea gulls that lived on the beaches of Nevis, observing the Earth from above_. -

Hamilton had been feeling unwell for several days, and his aide had begged him to see a doctor. The Secretary had refused; too stubborn to admit that he was starting to feel like he had all those years ago, in that sweltering bed.

One night, leaning over his documents, he started to have a coughing fit. He covered his mouth with his hand, and when he removed it, it was stained with both ink and blood.

His aide found him unconscious, slopped over his desk, a pen in one hand and a handkerchief in the other.

 _When his mother passed her fever onto him, Alexander felt as if his whole body had been set aflame. He drifted in and out of consciousness, drenched in sweat yet still shivering. Despite gaps in his memory, he still remembers the feeling of his mother holding him tight under layers of thick covers. He remembers seeing her eyes, bloodshot red. He remembers starting to cry. He remembers his mother whispering in his ear. He cannot remember what she said._

 _She died the next morning._

 _He didn't._

 _He wonders why_.

"He won't survive another day," the shadowy voices say, "He doesn't stand a chance."  
In response, Hamilton leans over the side of his bed and throws up, dazed and barely able to move. One of the men leans forward and cuts the Secretary's arm, holding out a metal cup to collect the blood. "So much bad blood," said the doctor. Thinking Hamilton was unconscious, another shadowy figure responds, "Must be the bastard in 'im. Tainted." The words echo in Hamilton's skull, _tainted, tainted, tainted._

 _Sometimes he wishes he had died with his mother, in that bed, in that room, on that island._

 _At least there he was warm._

In his feverish daze, Alexander catches glimpses of figures standing at his bedside. All those he's lost, all those he has to lose. His mother. Eliza. _The children._

Laurens never visits.

 _Alexander still dreams, sometimes;_

 _He dreams of castles made of sand, of countries made of snow, of mountains made of fire._

 _He dreams of the calm beach near his home, the waves lapping at his feet, the sounds of the gulls, the smell of salt._

 _He dreams of John - **(Eliza?) -** standing next to him, smiling. Holding his hand._

Despite the shock of the doctors, he makes a perfect recovery in little under a week.

Despite his aide's protests, he immediately insists on being taken from his bed to his desk.

After all, there's work to be done.

 _It seems like an eternity ago now:_  
 _Aaron Burr walks through the streets of New York, chatting (or, rather, listening) to the young immigrant who has captured his interest. He feels pricks of cold on his skin_ _and looks up to the sky. "It usually doesn't snow this early," he comments dryly, "I suppose the post will be delayed a few days." It takes him a few seconds to notice that Hamilton's incessant jabbering has suddenly stopped. He turns around, sees the boy staring up at the clouds, mouth open wide. "Never seen snow before?", Burr questions, disbelieving. Hamilton doesn't answer: his face is wet; but from tears or the melting snow, it was impossible to tell._


End file.
